


A Little Sugar in My Bowl

by Wynn



Series: A Little Sugar in My Bowl [1]
Category: Gilmore Girls
Genre: But do it anyway, F/M, Newly uploaded to AO3, Older Fic, Set post-S6, Sexual Content, Some angst, They Know It's Wrong, They don't think of Rory, They're both lonely, some sass
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-02
Updated: 2014-03-02
Packaged: 2018-01-14 07:46:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1258501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wynn/pseuds/Wynn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>I want a little sugar in my bowl/ I want a little sweetness down in my soul</em>.</p>
<p>How does it start? Neither knows, but suddenly they're kissing before her hotel room door and trying not to think about Rory.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Little Sugar in My Bowl

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the Nina Simone song of the same name.

Dean kisses like he’s Bull Durham- long, slow, deep, and wet. Or at least determined to light a backdraft in Lorelai's soul by stealing all her air and then giving it back in a rush that sets fires down her lungs and spine and lights her body ablaze like the fourth of July.

It’s September third.

Dean presses Lorelai against her hotel room door, and she’s stuck between the rock and the very hard place with a hand Kong-sized skimming down her waist. And since when did his hands get that big? Why did she not notice when his hands got that big? She should have-

“Stop thinking.”

Lorelai shivers at the wisp of a growl against her ear. She forgot that he knew them so well. Knew her so well. Her and Rory. 

She should stop, this should stop, but he shifts and slides a hand rough like his voice from hammers and nails and footballs and hockey sticks under her shirt, and he played hockey in school with a stick and a puck. Lorelai never saw him play but Rory did, once.

“Dean-”

“Where’s your key?”

One leg sneaks between her thighs, worn denim pushing up her skirt, rubbing her skin like a motorcycle growl. Dean has a bike, black like his leather, one Lorelai knows he built himself with wide rough hands stained dark with grease but still nimble round the engine like he is with her.

“Dean, this-”

“Is wrong. I know. I just-” He pulls back short of breath. The distance makes her heart grow fonder, or maybe it’s the way he looks at her, like Christopher used to, still does, just not with the weight of the past and their parents staring silent behind.

He licks his lips and Lorelai feels his kiss like a phantom limb. He stares down at her, hair curled by his ears, finger mussed where she held on tight. Her palms skim his chest as he breathes, and she bites back a moan at the muscles firm and broad, at shoulders strong and wide, straining the seams of his shirt. She does not think of Luke. 

He does not think of Rory.

“In my pocket,” she says, and he looks at her with his body whole, flashes that smile, that damn smile, sincere in its promise of sin and the love they both lost.

He leans in, touches his forehead to hers. Fingers more gentle than Lorelai deserves cup her cheek, cradle and hold as he kisses her again. She closes her eyes as his thumb draws tears across her skin, as he offers salvation in a soft slow swipe, and release in a smooth brush of hair behind her ear.

The door opens and Lorelai pulls Dean in. She kicks the door shut, sheds her coat and her fears, pushes him back to the wall, scrapes nails down his arms. He yanks her forward on a moan, and Lorelai stops thinking.

She stops.  
............


End file.
